


Only Love Can Set Us Free

by dancinginthecenteroftheworld



Series: JB Appreciation Week 2019 [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage, Demisexual Jaime Lannister, F/M, Falling In Love, Jaime/Brienne Appreciation Week, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-11-08 14:37:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinginthecenteroftheworld/pseuds/dancinginthecenteroftheworld
Summary: What if Jaime were released from the Kingsguard after killing Aerys? And two fathers with difficult-to-betroth offspring come to an arrangement, between Kingslayer Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth, the ugliest maid in Westeros.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Played with ages to make this work and not be creepy, so Jaime is older than canon, around 25, and Brienne is 18. Also took an approach where Cersei and Jaime had not had much time to establish their relationship, and Cersei is more focused on being Queen than loving her twin.
> 
> Beta'd by maevewren, who is amazing and the first person ever to ADD commas to my writing. <3

Brienne of Tarth had thought Humphrey Wagstaff was the worst betrothal her father could come up with.

It turns out that was incorrect.

No, the worst is the scroll her father is laying before her in his solar. 

“The Kingslayer,” Brienne says with dismay. “Father!”

Selwyn looks uncomfortable, but there are no cracks in his firm demeanor. “You must get married, starlight.”

“To a man without honor?” Brienne can feel the tears welling up in her eyes and blinks them back. “He killed the King!”

“Someone was going to,” Selwyn says grimly. “Aerys was mad, had been for years.”

“He was Kingsguard!” Brienne pauses. “Is Kingsguard. They serve for life, and they can’t marry.”

“He was dismissed,” Selwyn says. “A new monarch may choose their own Kingsguard. King Robert felt uncomfortable with him continuing.”

“I don’t want to marry him,” Brienne says, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“I’m sorry, Brienne, but you have to marry.” Selwyn sighs. “You are my heir, child.” 

“So _I’ll_ be Evenstar, not this … Lannister.” 

“A woman may not be the Evenstsar,” Selwyn says. “And even if you could, what then? You’d still require heirs of your own. I have been patient, Brienne. I have arranged three betrothals, and not one of them has led to your marriage.” 

“That’s not all my fault,” Brienne mutters.

“No, it’s not. But you must marry. And you _will_ behave as a lady when the Lannisters arrive. No breeches. No swords. No challenging your intended to a dual,” Selwyn bites out. “You will marry Jaime Lannister in two weeks’ time.”

* * *

“Where the fuck is Tarth?” Jaime Lannister says, staring down at the scroll his father has laid before him. 

“Off the coast of the Stormlands. It’s a small island, not very wealthy, but critical for protecting the coast,” Tywin says. 

“And my intended?” Jaime lifts his head. “Noble birth, a strategic island, and she’s eight and ten. How is she not betrothed already?”

“She was betrothed before.”

“Ah, so what’s wrong with her, then?”

“She’s ugly,” Tywin says briskly. “So I hear. I haven’t met the woman. Her past betrothals have … been ended.”

“An ugly girl from a poor island,” Jaime says. “Is this what I’ve been reduced to?”

“Yes.”

“I could return to the Kingsguard,” Jaime tries. “If I could just _talk_ to Robert, explain –”

“There is nothing to explain.” Tywin fixes him with a glare. “You are heir to Casterly Rock. Allowing you to join the Kingsguard was a mistake. I never should have let it stand.” 

“Surely there’s a better option,” Jaime says. “Father, we’re Lannisters.” “And you killed a king,” Tywin shouts. “You killed your king instead of guarding him, you’re lucky you aren’t on the Wall right now. Or dead.” 

“Aerys –”

“I don’t care,” Tywin says. “You killed a king, do you think lords are lining up to marry their daughters to you? Do you think it was _easy_ to find a woman of suitable birth?”

“So I won’t marry,” Jaime says.

“You are to be lord of Casterly Rock. Your duty is to provide heirs and that requires a marriage.” 

“To this ugly girl, from some backwards rock.”

“To a noble woman of suitable breeding, whose family rules an island of strategic importance for the safety and security of Westeros,” Tywin says. “You will marry Brienne of Tarth.”

“If I refuse?”

“You won’t,” Tywin says. “We leave for Tarth tomorrow.”

Jaime stands to leave. He’s halfway to the door when Tywin looks up again.

“Oh, and Jaime? Don’t bother looking for your sister. She’s already on the road to King’s Landing.”

* * *

The morning the Lannisters arrive on Tarth is the kind of morning Brienne usually loves. The sky is clear blue, the sun shining warmly down. The trees rustle gently in the breeze off the ocean, the waves rumbling along the shore.

But instead of heading down to the training yard to spar, Brienne is trussed up in a gown and waiting in the hall for her intended and his family. 

The gown is uncomfortable, fitted tight on her torso and flowing into a skirt. The skirt is long enough at least, sweeping the floor, but the bodice only shows her lack of curves. The seamstresses have tried, fashioning a neckline meant to mimic curves and embroidering it with the moons and stars of Tarth, but there is no gown so beautiful it can disguise the reality. Brienne is tall, she is built thick and solid, with small breasts, a thick waist and large hips. Nor is there any disguising the massive amount of freckles she has, or her twice-broken nose or the thick lips too large for her face.

Her Septa has done her best with her hair as well, but Brienne knows it’s too short for the elaborate braids that are in fashion. Pale blond, like straw, it usually just hangs limply around her face. 

At least in braids, it’s not in the way. There is a small mercy in that.

Brienne does not want to see her betrothed, has no desire to meet him. She half hopes the Lannister ships have crashed on the rocks that make the coastline of Tarth so treacherous. She knows, though, that they will not have. It’s daylight, not the darkness that leads so many ships aground, and her father has sent one of the island’s best captains to row out and meet them, taking the boat the final distance with his expertise. 

Yet she wishes they would just arrive already, if only to give her something to do other than sit in the hall with the ladies her father has summoned from the villages to act as her court. It would not do for the Evenstar’s daughter to appear friendless, although Brienne has scarcely spoken to any of these women. They labor away at their embroidery while Brienne has set hers aside and twists her hands in her lap.

What she wouldn’t give to be outside, to have a sword in her hand and the ground under her feet, where she could train and train until all her worries disappear under the exhaustion and aching muscles.

Brienne regrets thinking that, because no sooner does she wish it would all be over with does a steward rush in and inform the women that the party is approaching.

Brienne heads to the balcony, followed by the twittering ladies. 

It feels ridiculous, staring down at the man she is to wed, as if this is some romantic song. But Brienne wants to know how bad this is going to be. If only to prepare herself.

The Lannisters are making their way up the road to Evenfall, a retinue of red and gold shining in the sun. 

“That’s him!” One of the ladies gives a small giggle. “Oh, he’s so handsome.”

“Poor thing,” another says. “Stuck with her.”

Brienne ignores her.

Jaime Lannister is not merely handsome, she thinks, turning her gaze to where all the ladies stare; Jaime Lannister is the gods made flesh.

His hair shines gold in the sun as he rides a large black horse with the ease of a skilled horseman. He wears red and gold, a doublet and breeches that fit him well, and even from afar Brienne can tell that he is muscular and lean. He is every vision of perfect manhood come to life, riding towards her. 

Brienne sighs in relief. There is no escaping her inevitable humiliation, of course, but there is no way a man such as this would ever marry her. Even Ronnet Connington had thrown his rose at her feet in disgust, and Ronnet Connington is built far less powerfully than Lannister, with a beard that does not quite disguise his lack of chin.

Brienne has been humiliated before, of course, and she has no desire to endure it again, but anything, anything will be worth it to escape marriage.

Perhaps this will be the last betrothal, if an old man and a man without honor reject her. There will be few options left for her father.

Brienne will set her spine and she will grit her teeth and soon this will all be over.

* * *

Evenfell is not as large as Casterly Rock, nor as grand, but Jaime thinks it manages to be somehow more inviting. The white marble gleams and the yard bustles with people, no doubt busy preparing for the wedding.

His wedding.

To the Maid of Tarth.

Jaime has asked around, and tales of his future wife are not flattering. She is large, she is powerfully ugly, she is wild and disobedient, she is more man than woman.

Some say she might actually be a man, though Jaime doubts those tales. If only because his father would have checked, lest his desire for heirs go unmet.

When they arrive at the castle, Jaime find the stories were not much of an exaggeration.

The Maid of Tarth is taller than he is, and Jaime is not a short man. She is stocky and sullen, with a face that looks assembled from spare parts. Her hair is not golden like Jaime’s, but pale blond, like weak butter.

“Is she even a woman?” one of the squires asks, surely loud enough for her to hear.

Jaime strides forward after his father, being first introduced to the Evenstar, a man who is taller than his daughter, taller than any man Jaime has seen, including the Cleganes, with broad shoulders and a firm jaw.

It’s clear that his daughter takes after him in ways that, for a woman, are most unfortunate. 

When Jaime is taken to meet his intended, she is still hunched over and staring at the floor, as if she could will this entire thing away. 

“My lady,” he says, noticing the way she flinches. 

“My lord,” she says finally, raising her gaze to meet his.

Jaime sucks in a breath. For all the stories he has been told, not one has mentioned the girl’s eyes. Clear and blue, bluer even than the waters surrounding Tarth, Jaime feels as if she is looking into his soul. 

The girl seems to be waiting for something, jaw set and a scowl on her face.

“Shall we,” Jaime says, offering his arm to escort her into the castle. 

He hopes to make some sort of conversation, but as soon as they are inside, Brienne excuses herself in a rush, dashing off down a corridor.

No matter. The wedding is tomorrow, there will be plenty of time to get to know one another after. In the meantime, Jaime can dispatch one of his squires to see what information can be gathered from the servants, who might actually have some real information on his bride.

* * *

Brienne waits all night, tense in bed, for the summons to her father’s solar to inform her that her marriage will not take place, but it doesn’t come.

She had expected it to come earlier, perhaps during dinner, when she tried not to stare at her future husband from across the hall, tried not to turn red simply by being in the presence of his beauty. 

They are seated far apart for the meal. Brienne imagines it is deliberate, for fear that her intended will look too closely at her face and decide that he won’t marry her after all.

Brienne has nothing to offer, she knows, in terms of her person. And Tarth, while strategic, is a poor island, especially compared to Casterly Rock. The marble mines are prized, but comparing them to the gold mines in the Westerlands is like comparing a drop of water to the ocean.

If Ser Jaime had not betrayed his vows and killed the king, the Lannisters would never stoop so low. Brienne knows there are rumors, knows that Aerys was said to be mad and many say there must have been a reason his own guard stabbed him in the back. Her father certainly thinks so, or else he wouldn’t have made this match. 

But even with his honor tainted with a dismissal from the Kingsguard, Jaime Lannister is still a beautiful man. Certainly there are many women who would fight to be married to him. Even now.

Up close, Jaime has brilliant green eyes and a jaw that looks carved out of steel, a perfect combination of features that sends Brienne’s stomach lurching violently.

Even Renly had not stirred that response in her, and Renly is the most handsome man she has ever met.

Until now.

Yet no servants come to tell her that the betrothal is ended.

Not after dinner. Not during the night. Not in the morning, when her handmaid comes with a tray for her to break her fast before dressing.

Brienne has no appetite for food, her stomach tangled in knots as she waits for the inevitable. 

Ser Jaime had not seemed cruel when she’d met him, had met her eyes and kissed her hand as though she were a proper lady, but perhaps he is. Perhaps he intends to wait until she is dressed in her finery to mock her. Or worse, until they are standing before the Septon. 

Ronnet Connington had refused her in the middle of the courtyard, the smallfolk gathered around to witness their introduction. Nobody had dared laugh too loudly, because ugly though she may be, Brienne is still the Evenstar’s daughter, but there had been stifled laughter from the crowd.

Brienne had burned with shame, knowing they all could see how unwanted she was, and surely a rejection in the Sept where she is to marry will be worse.

Still, she forces herself to nibble on a piece of bread and some fruit. If she’s going to be humiliated, she might as well try to be well-fed for it.

Brienne sighs when the handmaids appear to dress her. She has only ever required one handmaid, a small girl who spends more time repairing rips in Brienne’s breeches than dressing her, so her father’s latest consort has sent hers to help.

They cluck over her sympathetically as they drape her in the gown, slide delicate slippers on her feet and fuss over her hair. She had been forced to sleep with it wrapped tightly in rags all over her head, making it difficult and painful to lay on the pillow. Now it falls around her face in crinkly waves, obscuring her vision and making her wish for scissors to cut it all off.

They even paint her face, smearing red on her lips and pink on her cheeks, as if any of it will disguise what she looks like.

No summons comes, no message, and it’s not long before Brienne finds herself standing outside the Sept next to her father, who looks regal in his blue and pink doublet. 

So she will be left inside, better to ensure all present know how undesirable the Maid of Tarth is. 

Brienne lifts her head, steeling herself. Words are wind, she reminds herself. It is only one day she has to survive, and then she will be free again.

* * *

Jaime expects more dreadful tales from the servants about the beast he is to marry. That is what they called her on the boat, the beast, and surely she is large enough to be one.

But his squire comes back with a different sort of story.

Brienne is kind, according to the servants. She is generous and rarely has a harsh word for anyone. She requires little attention and makes few demands of the staff. She notices when a servant is feeling ill and gives them leave to stay in their room for the day. She remembers their names and asks after their families.

The few harsh words she has, it seems, are for any men who seek to take advantage of the maids in the castle. 

Jaime thinks of Rhaella before he can stop it, of her cries of despair behind locked doors. He pushes them away before they can get too far, before he can start to tremble and gasp for breath.

He cannot fault his intended for her harshness in those instances.

Beyond that, Brienne is said to shun ladylike pursuits, lacking the skills for needlework and singing and dancing, instead preferring to join the squires in the training yard. Supposedly she is quite good with a sword, though Jaime can’t quite imagine how a young woman, even one given quite a bit of leeway, could accomplish that. She wears breeches and tunics more than gowns, though a new wardrobe has been sewn in anticipation of her marriage.

She has been forbidden, Jaime learns, from taking up a sword or dressing as she wishes now that they are to be married.

Jaime has never seen a grown woman in breeches and a tunic, though he imagines the sight would be quite entertaining. Mayhap he will grant his wife more freedom, to see what happens.

An ugly wife with a kind heart. It is not the marriage Jaime has dreamed of, certainly, but it is the one he is going to have, it seems.

He could try to call it off. To demand an end to the betrothal now that Jaime has laid eyes on the lady.

That has been his plan all along, to claim to his father that certainly Jaime could not marry one so ugly, that he can’t produce heirs if his wife is so repulsive his cock shrivels upon itself. Then he could go back to Casterly, work on a plan to get to King’s Landing.

It’s a solid plan, except that Jaime has not received one raven from his sister since he was dismissed from the King’s Guard.

They must have passed each other on the road on his return to Caterly, his retinue headed west and hers east, if she was in the capital so quickly.

Cersei had rarely written him when he was in the Kingsguard, claiming that it would arouse suspicion. There would be no suspicion now, but she has not written. Not even as he sent her raven after raven, begging for a response.

Their father says she is to be married to Robert Baratheon, and it all makes sense, suddenly. His sister will be queen, and now she has no need of Jaime.

Jaime remembers the night before he took his vows, the night his sister had whispered to him that he must join the Kingsguard, that he could be in King’s Landing with her when she married Prince Rhaegar. 

To protect her from the Targaryens, she had said, because even then Aerys made people uneasy.

_I love you_, Jaime had whispered as they lay together, mirror images, all gold and beauty. Cersei had arched underneath him, moaned and sighed and responded to his touch, but Jaime realizes she had never said it back.

Then Rhaegar married Elia Martell instead, and Cersei stayed at the rock but Jaime had not, and then Rhaegar had thrown Elia aside for Lyanna Stark and everything went to all of the seven hells.

Jaime stayed faithful, stayed true to his sister the entire time. No sneaking off to whorehouses with the others, no charming kitchen maids.

Now, she has not even a word for him. Not about his marriage, not about hers, not about his raven pleading with her to run away to Essos and be together. 

Jaime may be the stupidest Lannister, as his father is fond of pointing out, but even he can see that Cersei has no more love for him. No more need of him, for Jaime questions now if she ever had love at all. 

Cersei has moved on with her life. Jaime might as well do likewise.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much to Brienne's surprise, she and Jaime start a new life togehter.

Brienne holds her breath as she waits.

“Father,” she pleads, one last time. “Please do not make me.”

“It’s a good match,” Selwyn says stiffly.

“He won’t go through with it,” Brienne says. “You’ve seen him. You will allow him to humiliate me in front of everyone when he rejects me?”

“He won’t reject you,” Selwyn says. ”His father has made this clear. You will be married, starlight, as you should have been long before now.”

Then he’s leading her down the aisle to where the Septon waits. 

Jaime is even more stunning today, in a golden doublet shining with embroidery and black breeches and boots. His hair is slicked back, not disheveled as it had been upon arrival, the better to show off his features.

Brienne feels even more hulking and ugly than usual as her father leads her to him, stepping aside so that she can face the man who is about to embarrass her in front of everyone. 

The Sept is full, although Brienne isn’t sure if it’s because people truly want to be there or they just want to see how badly it will go. 

Brienne stares at Jaime’s face, wondering how he’s going to do it, what he’ll say when he casts her aside. Waits for him to burst into laughter at the thought that she actually showed up, actually tried to look like a woman, actually thought anyone would marry her.

But he only reaches out and takes her hands in his.

* * *

Brienne’s wedding dress is a tribute to the Lannisters, Jaime sees. The white gown is embroidered with gold on the edges, and the red overdress is clasped with lions’ heads at the shoulders and waist. The only nod to Tarth, aside from her maiden cloak, is small sapphires held in the lion’s mouths.

This dress is looser than the one Brienne wore yesterday, Jaime notes, and suits her far better, giving the illusion of a woman’s shape underneath. Her hair is loose too, falling around her face in a way that softens her. 

She looks petrified, though, and Jaime wonders what sorts of things her Septa has been telling her. 

Jaime is so busy wondering what has Brienne so terrified that he barely registers the ceremony, sweeping her cloak away and replacing it with his, an inch or so too short, but otherwise suiting her quite well. The Septon binds their hands and they speak their vows, though Jaime can hear Brienne’s voice quavering.

It suddenly dawns on him that she may be dreading this as much as he has been. 

Then they are at the end.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Jaime says, wondering why the vows include this when love is so rarely a consideration when it comes to marriage.

Jaime almost ducks his head out of habit, but Brienne is taller than he is, not shorter like Cersei, and he has to go up on his toes to reach her lips, because she does not bend down to meet him.

Brienne has been standing before him as stiff as a statue, but her lips are soft and dry under his. 

It is done.

* * *

Brienne feels like the world has suddenly turned upside down.

She is married.

Married to Jaime Lannister.

Brienne had spent the entire ceremony in a state of nervous dread, stiffly waiting for the moment when Jaime would laugh in her face and walk away. When he would declare her too ugly to consider, too mannish to be a wife.

But he hadn’t. He had cloaked her in his colors, held her hands in his (warm, calloused, slightly larger than hers), said the words.

And kissed her. 

They are married.

She is Lady Lannister, future Lady of Casterly Rock. 

She has a husband.

Big Brienne has a husband, and that must be the biggest joke the Seven have ever played. Brienne is not prepared for this.

Certainly, her Septon has warned her of her duties as a wife. Blow out the candles and lie on your stomach, she had said, much to Brienne’s confusion. It is not the way things are usually done, but it will be easier on your husband not to see your face. 

Brienne had not given the matter much thought, certain that no man would ever lower himself to wed her, and now she’s here, sitting at the head table with her husband during the wedding feast.

He will expect to bed her, as is his due, will expect her to behave as a proper wife and Brienne has no idea how to do either.

Her stomach churns and she can hardly bring herself to eat, though she’s had nothing substantial to eat since – well, she’s not sure when, having been too nervous of the humiliation of yet another broken betrothal to eat very much. She can’t even stomach the rabbit stew she usually loves.

“You should eat,” Jaime – her _husband_ – says in a surprisingly gentle tone. 

“I’m not hungry.”

“You barely ate last night,” Jaime says, and Brienne jerks her head up in surprise that he had even noticed. “You need food.”

“Why did you marry me?” Brienne says, instead of picking up her spoon. “Our fathers arranged it,” Jaime says mildly. “I’m certain yours is almost as eager for heirs as mine.”

“But you saw me, before the wedding,” Brienne says.

“And?” 

“You didn’t break it off.” 

“Should I have?”

“You wouldn’t be the first,” Brienne says, thinking again of Connington and his rose. “Most men would.”

“Ah, well you see, there are no men like me,” Jaime says. “Only me.”

* * *

His wife, and how strange is that word, picks at her food during the feast. Jaime has scarcely seen her eat since his arrival and from her build, that cannot be a normal occurrence. 

When Brienne says she expected him to break the engagement, Jaime feels a stab of guilt.

That had been his plan, even before laying eyes on her, and the shame of her previous betrothals is written across her face as clear as day.

Brienne is not that much younger than he is, not really, but Jaime thinks she looks like a girl when she asks him about it, so young and terrified and sold into this without a thought for what she might want.

Cersei had raged about the same thing, but Cersei seems to have adjusted quickly once it was clear she would be queen. 

Jaime swallows more wine, drinking deeply, wishing he had more to say to his wife. But he knows nothing about her, nor her about him, and so they wait in silence. 

It isn’t long before someone at one of the tables lets out a yell and declares it time for the bedding.

“Time to see if she’s really a woman under there,” another man roars and Jaime glances over at Brienne.

His wife’s face has gone white, and she’s gripping her knife like she intends to stab the first man who comes near her. Jaime isn’t wild about the idea of being stripped by the women himself, but nobody has said such things to him and he’s sick with the thought of how these men might grope her in their quest.

“There will be no bedding,” he says, standing up and channeling all his Lannister pride.

His father is scowling, certainly not relishing the scene Jaime is making, but there isn’t much he can do without making a bigger one. 

“I don’t like other people touching my things,” Jaime says, glaring at the crowd. “And that includes my wife.”

He reaches his hand out for Brienne’s and is still somewhat surprised when she takes it, her palm as calloused as his, and leads her out of the hall.

Their chambers are set off in one wing, far from their fathers and the other guests. For privacy, Jaime assumes, though he has no fear of being overheard. 

“I don’t intend to bed you tonight,” he says briskly, after the door is shut behind them. The sheets on the bed are folded down, a fire crackling in the hearth.

Brienne grits her teeth. “I understand you will not want to see me,” she says. “But it is required. I’ll blow out the candles.”

“You don’t want to bed me,” Jaime says. “I won’t force you – I will not force anyone.”

“But we’re married,” Brienne says, slowly.

“That doesn’t make it any better,” Jaime says darkly. He tosses his doublet into the corner and sits on the bed in his tunic and breeches. “I may be the Kingslayer, but I don’t take women against their will.”

“But heirs …”

“Neither of us wanted this,” Jaime says. He looks at his wife, standing there in her gown, so young and scared. “I don’t force people and I don’t expect there to be love between us, but perhaps someday, respect. And we can discuss heirs later, they are not needed straight away.” 

It’s a long moment, but Brienne nods.

* * *

The journey to Casterly Rock is long and dull. They move slowly, Brienne trapped in a wheelhouse once they arrive at the mainland, with her handmaiden and several ladies from the Lannister party sent to assist her.

Jaime hasn’t laid a hand on her, true to his word, which is surprising. For a man without honor, he has shown much of it, lying beside her in their bedroll, never reaching to take his rights.

Shamefully, Brienne finds herself wishing he would touch her, as she gazes out the window and watches the world pass by. Jaime is so beautiful, and she lies next to him at night, feeling the warmth of his body and wondering what it would be like.

But in her dreams, in the whisperings of the ladies who speak more freely around her now that Brienne is married and (supposedly) aware of what happens between a man and a woman, Jaime is looking at her, touching her gently, even perhaps making it as pleasant as possible, as she’s heard some men do when they like their wives.

The reality, when it inevitably happens, Brienne knows, will be a dark room and her lying on her stomach to make it easier for him to imagine someone else.

After his father departs, taking the road that will lead to King’s Landing while they continue west to Casterly Rock, Jaime stops the party. 

“Ride with me,” he says, appearing at the side of the wheelhouse.

“What?”

“I’ve heard you are quite the horsewoman,” Jaime says, grinning at her in a way that makes her heart clench. “You must be bored stiff. Ride with me.”

“I don’t have breeches,” Brienne says weakly, for she has been forbidden to bring any.

Jaime’s eyes trace her form, and Brienne is once again self-conscious about how unfeminine she is.

“Borrow mine,” he suggests. “They should fit.”

Jaime’s clothes do fit, although the breeches are slightly too short and the tunic tight in the shoulders. Still, it’s exhilarating to be out of the wheelhouse, to feel the wind in her hair. They ride ahead, after a while, racing each other and taking the horses over small obstacles in glorious jumps.

Later that night, when they are lying in the bedroll in their tent, Brienne looks over at her husband. 

“Why did you kill King Aerys?”

Jaime stiffens next to her. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.” Brienne sits up, leaning on one elbow to look over at him. “It’s an act without honor, but you’ve been nothing but honorable since we married. More than I would have any right to expect. The only explanation I can think of is that my father is correct, you must have had reasons.”

Jaime looks surprised at her words, and he’s silent for so long Brienne thinks he isn’t going to answer. 

“Wildfire,” he says finally. Then he’s talking and talking, telling her of Aerys’s madness, of standing outside the door while the king raped his wife, of watching men burn in suits of armor and children set alight for the king’s amusement. The caches of wildfire hidden beneath the capital, the command to burn them all.

“You’re a hero,” Brienne says, when he’s finished. “They should be praising you in the streets, not calling you –”

“Kingslayer?” Jaime shuts his eyes. “They didn’t want to know. The throne was there, Aerys was gone, Ned Stark took one look at me and made up his mind. They didn’t ask.”

Brienne knows her mouth is gaping open unattractively, but she can’t help it, the idea that nobody bothered to figure out why the king was dead astonishes her. 

“Nobody asked until you,” Jaime says. 

When she wakes up the next morning, Jaime is not far away on his side of the bedroll as usual, but curled close to her, one arm heavy on her waist, his breath against her neck as he snores softly. 

He looks more peaceful than she’s ever seen.

* * *

The days pass much more pleasurably with Brienne beside him, Jaime has to admit. And while he’d first thought the idea of a woman in breeches humorous, they suit Brienne far better than gowns ever could. She stands taller in them, more sure of herself, less surly. 

When she asks about Aerys, Jaime feels like a weight has been lifted off his chest, telling her the story for the first time.

Telling anyone the story for the first time. 

Jaime is surprised to wake up and find that he’s cuddled against her in his sleep, but not entirely displeased. In the dim morning light, her face slack with sleep, Brienne looks less harsh. She could almost be a beauty, Jaime thinks, gazing at her full lips.

Lips that are made for kissing, he decides, and feels a stab of arousal at the thought.

To his surprise, he wants to kiss her, wants to lean over and capture Brienne’s mouth with his, wake her up with gentle touches.

But he’s said he won’t touch her without permission, and Jaime will stay true to that promise. 

Besides, Brienne has no desire for him and Jaime has never had the slightest interest in bedding a woman who isn’t enthusiastic and willing.

They’re a day out from Casterly Rock, lying in the tent, when Brienne strokes his arm gently and looks up at him with those amazing eyes. Eyes that can hide nothing, and Jaime realizes as he looks at her that he could kiss her and she would allow it, let him touch her.

But she doesn’t know everything.

“I’ve been with a woman,” Jaime says, shifting slightly away from her. 

“Okay,” Brienne says, looking confused. “Men are not expected to be maids.” 

“Only one woman,” Jaime says, because that somehow seems important. 

The moment stretches out between them, silence heavy.

“It was my sister.”

Brienne gasps, staring up at him with wide eyes. 

“The Targaryens wed brother and sister for generations,” Jaime says defensively. “Why is it okay for them and nobody else?’

“The Targaryens are mad,” Brienne reminds him, as if he isn’t intimately acquainted with that fact. 

“It was once,” Jaime says, because he feels like she needs to know this, needs to understand who she has married. “Before I joined the Kingsguard. She was going to marry Prince Rhaegar, she thought, she convinced me to join the Kingsguard to be in King’s Landing with her.”

Brienne doesn’t answer for a long time, but she doesn’t run screaming from the tent, either. 

“Do you love her?”

“I did,” Jaime says slowly. “She’s my twin, we were one person in two bodies, she always said.”

Brienne is still looking at him, her gaze steady and almost sad.

“But she hasn’t written to me, not since I was dismissed. She’s to marry King Robert and she – I’ve written her and gotten no reply. Not for weeks.”

Brienne rolls away from him that night, and although it’s a warm summer night, Jaime feels cold.

* * *

It should be better when they arrive at Casterly Rock, Brienne having her own chambers adjoining her lord husband’s, a space where she can sleep peacefully. By herself.

Brienne can’t believe his confession, that he has lain with his sister, of all women. It should repulse her, she should be writing to her father immediately to request an annulment. She could, the marriage unconsummated as it is. It would only take an exam from a maester to verify. But instead Brienne just feels sad. Sad for Jaime, and the heartbroken look on his face when he told her that his sister had not written.

And sad for herself, because seeing the portraits at Casterly only drives home how ugly Brienne is and how unlikely it is that Jaime would ever be willing to touch her.

Cersei is petite and curvy, flowing gold hair and perfect, delicate features. She is the female version of Jaime, truly, and Brienne is a hulking beast. 

It makes it even more mystifying that Jaime hadn’t broken their engagement.

Brienne, shamefully, still desires him. She looks across the table at meals, seeing the way he smiles and laughs when a bannerman jokes with him, the weary look in his eyes after days of managing the affairs of the smallfolk. She wants to reach out and cup his face, soothe his fatigue with kisses. She wants him to touch her, to see if it would soothe the squirming ache she gets in her belly when he looks particularly attractive.

But she can’t, because surely a man like that couldn’t bear to touch her. 

Not even with the candles out and her lying face down. 

Women aren’t supposed to want these things. Brienne knows that, but the women in the songs always yearn for their knights, so there must be _something_ good. Brienne thinks that she’d like to know Jaime is happy, would like to bring him pleasure – though she has no idea how – and that would make her pleased as well. 

It’s the duty of a wife, her Septa had told her, to make sure her husband is satisfied so that he stays loyal and does not go planting bastards in other women’s bellies. Not that she’d offered Brienne any ideas on how a woman goes about that. Brienne wonders if it’s a thing other women just know, the way they seem to just know how to be graceful and delicate and embroider pretty handkerchiefs and when to giggle politely at men’s jokes and when to stay quiet.

Brienne doesn’t know any of these things. She doesn’t understand when men are being sincere and when they are mocking her, she doesn’t know how to make pretty things or flatter people just enough to be gracious but not scandalous. 

Brienne is not naive. She knows that no man will want her. Not looking as she does. But there was a time on the road, where she’d had a brief hope that Jaime could at least come to hold some affection for her, perhaps enough to get past her appearance and at least do their duty to produce heirs. 

A chance she could succeed, for once, at doing the things women are meant to do.

Seeing the portraits of Cersei makes it clear how foolish that idea was. Even a pretty woman would be overshadowed by Cersei’s beauty, and Brienne is not a pretty woman. 

Brienne does her best to hold her head up high, keep going as if all is fine. 

Few marriages develop into love; there was never any reason to hope hers would be any different.

That doesn’t stop her from crying into her pillow at night.

* * *

Jaime has heard his wife weeping for three nights. On the fourth, he finally gives up his plan to respect her privacy and pads quietly through the door connecting their bedchambers.

“Brienne,” he says softly, laying a hand on her shoulder.

She starts, blinking up at him with red-rimmed eyes. Her face is red and blotchy, uglier than ever, but Jaime just feels relief when he sees her.

Brienne has avoided being too close to him since his confession, as well she should, but it makes his heart feel as though it’s breaking. 

Jaime has grown fond of her face during their time on the road, knowing that seeing her meant kindness and sweetness of a type he’d never experienced.

Even when they raced and challenged each other, Brienne was not mean. Her teasing was gentle and devoid of malice and Jaime found himself laughing in ways he hadn’t felt since he was a boy.

Now Brienne is weeping into her pillows, and Jaime knows he is the cause.

“You may ask for an annulment if you wish,” Jaime says. “I know that what I’ve done is reason enough for that.”

Brienne sniffles up at him, a fresh wave of tears coming before she speaks.

“I don’t want an annulment,” she says. “I would only be married off again, and who knows whom my father would find next.”

That’s true enough, but Jaime flinches at the implication, the admission that he is the bottom of the barrel in terms of husbands.

“I'm sorry that I offend you so," Jaime says, looking away. 

"You don't offend me," Brienne says. She hasn't moved away and Jaime wishes he could gather her in his arms.

Brienne is so honest, so kind, so honorable, it hurts to know that she’s suffering. Someone so pure shouldn't be subject to pain.

"I must," Jaime says. "Why else would you be crying every night?"

Brienne falls quiet, turning her face away. "It's not your concern."

"You're my wife, you are my concern."

"Not a real wife."

"No." Jaime sighs. "And you won’t be unless you wish it."

Brienne's laugh is brittle and pained. "I wouldn’t ask such a thing of you."

"Of me?"

"I’ve seen your sister's portraits," Brienne says. "There is no darkness in the world, no amount of turning away that could make you forget the ugly beast you have married, especially compared to her."

"You aren't ugly," Jaime says, gazing down at her.

"Don't lie." Brienne shoves away from him then, inching towards the other side of the bed. "Don't lie to me, Jaime, if we can't have a real marriage, I'd like to think we can at least have trust."

"I'm not lying." Jaime looks at her again, takes in her face and her coarse hair. 

The more he looks at Brienne, the more her ugliness seems to fade. He sees instead the honesty shining from her eyes, the softness of her lips that would feel so good against his, the way her nose turns up at the end that is almost cute. He's laid beside her at night, hugged her body close to his, and despite what people say, she is very clearly a woman. Her curves may be small, but they are there, and the strength of her muscles is appealing in a way Jaime has never considered before. 

"I’m not beautiful," Brienne says. "I have heard it all before."

"But you are," Jaime says earnestly. "At first, perhaps, you seem unattractive, but you are kind, and gentle and intelligent. I enjoy spending time with you, I miss the days we had together on the road.'

"That’s friendship," Brienne says, and even though she is clearly angry and hurting, her tone is still soft. "That is not desire."

"Is it not? Does desire not grow as you get to know someone? Can someone not become more beautiful for who they are?"

Brienne is quiet for a while, and at first Jaime thinks she's fallen asleep.

"If that were true, I"d have many suitors," she says finally. "A person's soul cannot make them pretty."

It's just as well for Jaime that she feels that way, because surely the reverse would also be true and Brienne would revile him for what she knows.

"That’s not how I feel," Jaime says finally. "But I’ll take up no more of your time."

He's back in his room and his own bed before it finally hits him that Brienne had, in a roundabout way, admitted to wanting to sleep with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's the Emmy dress. I couldn't resist.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brienne and Jaime solidify their marriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we have the final chapter of this little AU. Hope you all enjoyed. Follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/danceonworld) for some random ramblings, if you like! 
> 
> And thanks again to maevewren, the best beta.

Brienne wonders if it would be easier if Jaime were cruel. He tries so hard to be kind to her, even lying to her about her appearance, as if she hasn't got a mirror. 

He even begins sparring with her, encouraging her to borrow his clothing and grabbing practice swords each morning after breakfast.

Jaime is a good fighter, an excellent fighter, and Brienne loses to him at first, but it's not long before she gets better. Not long before they are more evenly matched and he has to work for his wins. 

While Brienne looks bedraggled and dirty at the end of each match, Jaime looks unfairly attractive with his hair mussed and his eyes gleaming.

Brienne knows she should be grateful. A friendship and a kind husband is more than most women get, more than she's ever expected.

It makes everything hurt even more, the way what she wants seems so close, yet so far out of reach. 

They are sparring again, panting and sweating, when Jaime steps just right, giving Brienne an opening to hit his sword hard enough to knock it out of his hand.

She sends it flying far enough away that there's no hope of him getting it, not before he runs into her sword, and he freezes for a minute.

Brienne holds her breath. Jaime has been willing enough to fight her, but that's when he was winning. Beating him may be a bridge too far, even if she can feel the pride welling up inside her.

Most men would beat their wives for showing them up like this. Then again, most men would never let their wives hold a sword in the first place.

Then Jaime looks at the sword, looks at her, looks at the sword again and bursts into laughter. Brienne can't help smiling then, forgetting for a minute to hide her large teeth or try to minimize the size of her mouth, just taking a moment to revel in the fact that she has beat a man considered to be the best swordsman of his generation.

When Jaime finally stops laughing, it's to smile at her, a grin as bright as the sun.

"Well fought, wife," he says, stepping closer. "Though I daresay you got lucky."

"Or you stepped wrong," Brienne retorts.

"Perhaps." The grin falls off Jaime's face then, as he stands in front of her, so very close. 

He’s more beautiful the closer he gets, even when he has dirt on his face and smells like sweat and leather.

"Brienne," he says quietly. "May I kiss you?"

Brienne can only stare dumbly at him as she processes the request. He had seemed so pleased only moments before, how can he turn to mocking her so quickly? Is this payment for beating him?

But as she doesn't respond, Jaime's jaw tightens and she swears that he looks almost disappointed.

That can't be right, but it doesn't stop the hope that wells up in her.

"If you wish it," Brienne says quietly, as he's turning away.

Jaime turns back before she can even blink, his mouth on hers’ just like in the Sept, he has to go up on his toes to do it, but he's kissing her. 

Brienne suddenly panics, realizing that she has no idea what to do, and unlike the kiss at the wedding, Jaime is not stepping back. Instead he's slowly moving his lips over hers, and Brienne thinks she is supposed to be doing the same, only she doesn't know how.

Jaime does pull back slightly then, looking at her. "Follow my lead," he says, before leaning back in.

His lips are soft and dry and warm. Everything is warm, the way Jaime’s body is pressed lightly against hers, where she can feel the hard lines of his chest as he wraps one arm loosely around her waist. 

Brienne has never been kissed by anyone, has never even really thought too much about it, aside from songs where fair maidens brush a kiss on the cheek of a knight before he rides off to battle.

Brienne tries to do as Jaime says, but she knows that she's clumsy, she has no idea what she's doing, and Jaime is so good at it, she can feel the now-familiar squirming in her belly that she feels when he smiles at her or looks exceptionally handsome. 

Still, Jaime keeps going for several moments before he steps away, a small smile playing on his face.

"Thank you, my lady."

* * *

Jaime worries he has pushed Brienne too far, that she’s certain to hate him now, but he couldn't resist kissing her, not when she looked like that, flushed and beaming with victory.

Brienne's smile is glorious, and Jaime wants nothing more than to see it more often. 

She had allowed it, though, allowed him to kiss her and even attempted to kiss back, though she is clearly inexperienced.

Then again, Jaime supposes she would be, with the way he's seen men treat her.

Brienne had tasted like the honey from breakfast, with a hint of salt from where she'd been sweating, and it was amazing. Jaime can't stop thinking about it, about the idea of licking the saltiness from her skin and seeing how she would react.

Brienne isn’t quiet when she fights. She pants and grunts and growls, and Jaime finds that, more and more, he is unable to stop thinking about whether or not she would be the same in bed.

What sound would she make if he bit into the curve of muscle where her neck meets her shoulder? If he ran his hand up one of her long, long legs or cupped one of her small breasts in his hands? What would she sound like with him moving inside her, when she reached her peak?

It's a frustrating line of thought, especially since Brienne has become more skittish since their kiss. 

He sees her glancing at him sometimes, though, when she thinks he's not paying attention, the way red creeps up her cheeks when he smiles at her. 

Jaime thinks Brienne might have enjoyed the kiss too.

They're riding out to the fields one afternoon, Jaime taking the opportunity to show Brienne the lands that will someday be theirs, when he guides her to a quiet grove and coaxes her off her horse.

It's always been one of Jaime's favorite spots, a copse of trees where he used to go to escape his tutors and his family, where he could enjoy the quiet stillness.

"I hope I did not offend you," he begins. "After our match."

Brienne's face reddens, but she doesn't look away this time. "No."

Jaime steps closer.

"Then might I ask if we could do that again?" 

Brienne is biting her lip now, worrying the flesh with her teeth. "I don’t want to make you do anything you don't wish to do."

"But I do wish to," Jaime says. "I wish very much to kiss you again."

Brienne stares at him, eyes wide and disbelieving.

"Though perhaps sitting this time," Jaime teases. "Balancing on my toes is quite a challenge."

He grabs Brienne's hand and leads her to a spot near the trunk of a large tree, a place wide enough for both of them to lean against it.

"Are you sure?" Brienne is asking him, and Jaime can't help but laugh a little.

"Shouldn't that be my line?" he says, then leans in before she can have second thoughts.

Brienne tastes as sweet as he remembers, and it definitely is much better when he's not having to stand on his toes. She's more active this time, following his movements. When he pauses for breath, Jaime reaches out for her hands, which she is clenching by her sides, and pulls them to his waist.

"You are allowed to touch me, wife," he tells her. He cups her cheek in his hand, cautiously moving the other to her waist when she doesn't swat him away. 

Jaime feels Brienne relax as he kisses her, savoring the way her muscles slowly unclench and she leans slightly into his touch. He can't resist deepening the kiss, licking across her lips until she opens for him.

It's even better then, especially when he hears a small whimper escape Brienne's throat. Her body is warm and solid next to him, her hair pleasantly rough when he tangles his hand in it. 

Jaime pulls away from her mouth then, kissing along her jaw and nipping at her earlobe. 

"You're lovely like this," he tells her, feeling the way she shivers when he kisses certain spots, the way her fingers dig into his waist. 

That’s apparently the wrong thing to say, because Brienne freezes next to him, and Jaime pulls away reluctantly, feeling the want still coursing through him.

* * *

Jaime is mocking her.

Brienne fights back tears as they ride back to the Rock, the gait of the horse suddenly uncomfortable thanks to the strange ache between her legs.

Kissing Jaime had been like something from a song, no, not just a song, something better. Brienne hadn't considered that there were different types of kisses, or that having someone's tongue inside your mouth could feel so good.

She blushes to think on it, trying very hard not to look at Jaime riding beside her. 

Jaime had felt so good, so warm and solid next to her, allowing her to put her hands on him and kissing along her skin. Brienne has never put much thought to her neck, but when Jaime's mouth was on it, she felt on fire with sensation. 

Brienne is embarrassed to think of the noises she'd made, pathetic little mewls like a kitten looking for its mother, the way she'd gripped Jaime's sides to feel his muscles flexing underneath. 

She'd wanted to touch him more, wanted to slide her hand up along his chest and feel the planes of muscle under his tunic more than she'd ever thought to want such a thing. 

Nothing her Septa taught her has prepared her for this. The marriage bed is a duty, yes, but not something a wife is supposed to desire like a wanton. Brienne wonders if this is wrong about her too, just like her build and her strength and her face. 

Because Brienne wants to touch Jaime, she wants to kiss Jaime the way he'd kissed her, to run her lips along the line of his jaw and down his throat. She looks at him sometimes and thinks that she'd like to run her teeth across his collarbone or suck on his adam's apple and see if he'll make noises like she did earlier.

Horrible, unladylike thoughts, and certainly ones that would send Jaime roaring with laughter should he know them. 

"I truly did not mean to offend," Jaime says, breaking the silence. "If you’d like me to stop, you only have to say so."

"Then don't mock me," Brienne says. "If you don't want to offend."

Jaime's hand reaches out to grab her horse's bridle, yanking them both to a stop. 

"When was I mocking?" he says, looking genuinely confused. 

"You called me lovely," and oh it hurts just to say it, just to think about what it might be like to have that meant sincerely.

"That wasn’t mocking," Jaime says. "I mean it Brienne, you are lovely like that."

Brienne's eyes sting with tears.

"I can’t be," she says. "I'm the great cow of Tarth."

Jaime sighs heavily, though he lets go of her horse and they resume walking. "I meant what I said before, that you become more beautiful as I know you."

"That's not how it works," Brienne can't help saying. She wishes it were, for she might have a hope. But no amount of affection for someone has made them appear lovelier in her eyes, though she admits that poor behavior has lessened her appreciation of men. It does not make them less attractive, though.

"Mayhap it is for me," Jaime says.

"Did Cersei grow on you?" Brienne asks before she can stop herself.

There is a long silence and Brienne is sure she has gone too far.

"I’ve known Cersei my entire life," Jaime says. "I was born holding onto her heel. Maybe that's why it was – maybe that's why we sinned. We were too close."

There is nothing Brienne can say to that, so she doesn't.

"Mayhap I am strange," Jaime says after a while. "I’ve never desired the women at court, never wished to go to whorehouses with my brother. What point is there, a woman you don't know? It's nothing more than a warm place to stick your cock."

Brienne flinches at the crude words. She knows Jaime is a man, knows of course what that means, that men have needs, but to hear it put so plainly is jarring.

"I've only wanted to kiss two women in my life," Jaime says, as they're arriving at the stables. "The first was Cersei. The second is you."

* * *

Jaime doesn't know how he is meant to convince Brienne he's serious. Other men woo women with gowns and jewels, he knows, but he thinks Brienne would not appreciate either. 

He's considered a sword, but he worries she would see a gift like that as a bribe, a means to get her into his bed.

Which, to be fair, is something he wants very much. Jaime does want to get Brienne into his bed, wants it desperately, but not if she isn't willing. Not if she isn't there because she wants to be.

Tyrion has always laughed at Jaime's reluctance to visit whorehouses, or dally with kitchen maids. Jaime has always considered it faithfulness, loyalty to his sister, whom he had vowed to wait for.

The sister who has cut him off, has said not a word to him since either of their marriages.

Yet he's never really felt tempted, either. Jaime has assumed he was blinded by Cersei's beauty, but what he's told Brienne is true. He does desire her more every day. The more he gets to know her, the more he wants to show her how much, to love her the way husbands and wives are meant to love each other.

When he looks at Cersei's portraits or tries to picture her face, he feels nothing now. 

When he takes himself in hand – which is often these days, watching Brienne around the castle, because Jaime is true to his word but he's not a Septon – it's Brienne's face he pictures, the taste of her skin, the small noises she made as he kissed her.

It's Brienne he imagines, her strong legs wrapped around his hips, her arms pulling him down to her with all her strength. Jaime finds he delights in how strong his wife is, how she could likely overpower him if he gave her half a chance. 

The things about Brienne that had made her so ugly to him at first are now the very things he admires, the things he wants. 

Jaime doesn’t know what noble women are taught about marriage, about bedding, but he suspects it isn’t much. Cersei had certainly seemed to know things, but Jaime remembers giggling with her over books found in his father’s library, books that showed the variety of carnal delights men and women (or sometimes women and women or men and men) could engage in. 

Jaime doubts Brienne has seen similar reading material.

Brienne isn’t the type of woman whose head can be turned with fine things or flattering words. Even if Jaime means them.

Brienne values honesty, though.

Jaime waits until they are dining one night, just the two of them, servants dismissed and no bannermen visiting. On those nights, they eat in his solar, rather than be dwarfed by the Great Hall.

“Brienne,” Jaime says, waiting until she has set down her spoon. “I would like to take you to bed.” 

He’s very glad that he waited, because Brienne drops her empty bowl at his words.

“What?” 

“I won’t touch you if you don’t want it,” Jaime says. “I still mean that. I will always mean that.” 

“And I’m grateful for it,” Brienne says. 

“But when we kissed, I thought – it seemed like maybe I’m not alone in wanting a true marriage.”

Brienne turns red, blotchy patches of color staining her cheek and necks. “Women aren’t supposed to want those things.”

Jaime snorts. “Who told you that? Some Septa?’

“It isn’t proper,” Brienne starts.

“It’s entirely proper, between husband and wife.” Jaime risks moving closer, grasping her hand in his. She doesn’t pull away. “If you truly don’t want it, nothing will happen. But if you do, Brienne, I do too.” 

Jaime feels like he waits an eternity for Brienne’s answer, silent and still, wondering if he’s doomed himself to years of awkward silence and avoidance from a horrified wife.

Brienne nods shyly.

* * *

Brienne trembles as they depart for their chambers. Her husband’s chambers, the ones they are meant to share, the ones they will finally share.

Brienne isn’t entirely sure that Jaime isn’t mocking her. But he has kissed her before and when he spoke to her after dinner he had looked so nervous, so sincere.

It doesn’t make any sense, any sense at all, not with how beautiful Jaime is and how ugly she is.

But they are married, and this is what marriage is supposed to be. As much as Jaime promises, Brienne knows they can’t avoid it forever, not with the need to produce heirs as duty demands. 

And she wants to know what it’s like. To be a wife. To be a woman. Even if it’s only once, even if Jaime is disgusted by her and never wants to even speak to her again.

It seems very quiet as Jaime shuts the door behind them, barring it so they won’t be interrupted. For several long moments, they just look at each other, until Jaime steps forward. 

“Brienne,” he says softly, and then he’s kissing her again and Brienne sighs into his mouth.

She’s missed kissing him, since the first time, even though part of her still thinks he must have been mocking her. 

Brienne remembers what he said before, and moves her hands to Jaime’s shoulders, feeling him pull her closer in response. 

Jaime is warm and solid against her, and Brienne can feel that ache in her stomach again, stronger and deeper, something inside her that wants. Wants what, she isn’t entirely sure.

When Jaime pulls away, he kisses along her jaw, once in a while scraping his teeth against her skin in a way that makes Brienne shiver and gasp. His hands are moving too, one shifting between her waist and her hip, the other tracing along her face, her neck, her hair. 

If he can do that, so can she, and Brienne carefully slides a hand into his hair, which is softer than she could have imagined, and lets the other trace against the muscles of his shoulder and arm. 

It makes Jaime kiss her again, more urgently than before, and Brienne blushes to hear the small sounds she’s making, but she can’t seem to stop making them and Jaime groans into her mouth, so she’s not alone in this at least.

It all dissolves into a blur, then, a haze of kisses and touches, Brienne’s hesitant and unsure, Jaime’s more forceful and deliberate. Before Brienne knows it, they’re on the bed, both of them naked as the day they were born.

Jaime is all muscle and lines, and Brienne hasn’t exactly seen any nude men before, but she thinks Jaime must be the most beautiful of them all. Even though glancing down at his – at him, makes her stomach twist with fear rather than desire.

She’s heard it hurts, but seeing him makes her wonder how it’s ever supposed to work.

Jaime kisses her again, slow, sliding a hand up and caressing her breast, making Brienne twist and push closer to him.

Nobody has told her about this, that something like that can feel so good.

“It’s okay,” Jaime says, against her, before moving down to replace his hand with his mouth. 

Brienne arches up into him before she can stop it, gasping at the feelings he’s creating.

“Jaime,” she says, finally forcing his head away. “Is this …”

“Mm?” Jaime asks.

Brienne blushes. “It’s not natural, is it? For a woman to feel like – for it to feel good?”

“Whoever told you that is an idiot,” Jaime says, still running his hands over her, one of them sliding lower and lower each time.

“Jaime!” 

Jaime props himself up on one elbow, looking down at her. “I don’t have much experience with this either,” he says, looking at her. “But it should feel good for you, you should enjoy it, there’s nothing _wrong_ about that.” 

Brienne knows she turns even redder. She’s doing this wrong too, it seems, but Jaime’s not letting her shrink away, not letting her hide.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, and all Brienne can do is nod.

Then he’s sliding his hand down between her legs, rubbing up against her and Brienne is ashamed to realize something feels wet down there, though she’s done nothing that would cause that.

Jaime doesn’t seem to mind though, not the way he’s nuzzling against her neck and tracing his fingers over her, and then he brushes something that feels unlike anything Brienne’s experienced before and she feels Jaime grinning. 

The more he touches her, the more Brienne feels ashamed about how she’s pushing against him and making small noises, but she can’t stop either, because it feels good, so good, so much better than anything anyone has ever mentioned. Jaime just keeps touching her, keeps moving his hand and kissing anywhere he can reach, even when it’s so good Brienne feels like she needs to twist away, it’s too much.

And suddenly she’s falling, muscles clenching, everything around her fading away as she only feels pleasure spreading out from where Jaime’s touching her, her whole body alight. 

Brienne is gasping for air as it eases, and then Jaime is hovering over her, she can feel him pressing against her. Then he’s kissing her again, pushing inside her and Brienne feels her body stretching around him. 

It feels strange, having something– someone, _Jaime_ – inside her there and not entirely good, but Brienne also feels him touching where he had earlier, little pulses of pleasure along with the new sensations. She hardly has a chance to get used to it, though, because then Jaime is moving in and out, breathing labored and it’s only a few moments before he goes still and thrusts against her harshly and she feels something warm spreading through her. 

Jaime collapses against her, rolling to one side. Brienne isn’t sure what she’s meant to do now. Should she go back to her own chamber? Is she meant to do … something? But Jaime just wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her close to him.

“Sleep,” he mumbles against her shoulder. “Don’t worry.” 

Brienne tries not to.

* * *

Jaime wakes up with Brienne in his arms and it feels so good, so right, and he feels something in his chest ease. 

He’s faintly embarrassed for how brief their coupling was, though he’d tried to hold off. Brienne felt so good, so hot and wet around his cock, he hadn’t been able to control himself. 

He’ll get better, he vows, if she lets him, if she lets him keep trying, keep touching her.

Brienne had seemed so shocked, so amazed to enjoy it. Even though she was shy, even worrying that she was doing something wrong. 

Jaime can’t help but think about the one time he was with Cersei. His sister had none of Brienne’s hesitation. Nor had she shown any of the wonder and awe Brienne had. Cersei had known exactly what she wanted Jaime to do, and had no qualms about directing him. 

Jaime tries not to wonder how she knew.

Gods, he hopes Brienne doesn’t hate him when she wakes up, doesn’t regret allowing this. Because Jaime doesn’t want to stop now, wants to be her husband, truly, wants to fill Casterly Rock with all the heirs his father could hope for, wants to see Brienne heavy with his child, cuddling an infant to her breast.

Brienne starts to shift in his arms and Jaime realizes he’s been stroking his hand along her arm, nuzzling into her hair, and he’s probably waking her up. 

He knows the second she is fully awake, because she tenses in his arms.

Jaime sighs into the back of her neck, feeling the way she shivers slightly in response. 

“Good morning, wife,” he says, pulling away enough that she can shift onto her back.

Brienne doesn’t pull away from him, just blinks up at him with those big blue eyes. 

Jaime realizes he’s still running his hand over her skin, petting her like he would a kitten.

He clears his throat. 

“I feel I should apologize for my performance last night,” he says. “I can promise I’ll improve in time, if you allow me the chance.”

Brienne is looking at him like he’s suddenly started speaking High Valyrian. 

“You would want to ….”

“Do that again? Yes. If you agree.”

“With me?”

Jaime can’t help chuckling at that, moving to catch Brienne’s face before she turns away and pressing kisses along her cheek in apology for laughing. 

“Yes, with you,” he tells her. “If you … it seemed you enjoyed it.”

Brienne squirms against him and Jaime is suddenly aware of how close they are pressed together, how much of her skin is pressed against his, how warm and delicious she feels. 

“I did,” she finally says, sounding almost ashamed. “I’m sorry, I’m not a proper wife.”

And oh, she sounds so miserable and Jaime feels like a terrible person, because she’s clearly ashamed, but she’s also naked and all his blood is heading steadily south, his cock growing harder against his leg with every move she makes. 

“I think you’re an excellent wife,” Jaime tells her. “You are _supposed_ to enjoy it, and I’d like to have a word with whatever Septa told you otherwise.” 

He slides his hand up her side, stopping his gentle petting and moving to cup her breast. It just fills his palm, small, but so sensitive, he’d noticed last night. Brienne shivers, and he can feel her body pushing into his touch.

“I like making you feel good,” he tells her, kissing her.

He’s not entirely sure she won’t push him away, but she kisses back, and Jaime revels in the contented sounds she’s making in her throat, the way her legs slide restlessly against his under the sheets. 

“You make me feel good,” Jaime says, when they break the kiss. He thumbs her nipple, watching the pink flesh tighten under his hand, feeling Brienne’s hips twitch in response. 

“I do?”

“Very good,” Jaime says, moving to kiss down her chest, stopping to suck at her nipples to hear her moan and gasp, biting gently at the underside of her breast in a way he knows will bruise. 

Brienne will look so lovely with bruises from his mouth, a reminder that she’s his, he’s allowed to touch her like nobody else ever has.

Her skin is so soft, so at odds with her rough and awkward appearance. Jaime loves it, loves stroking his hand along her stomach, watching for the spots that make her twitch and groan. Loves the feel of his cock sliding against her hip, gentle friction, the way her eyes go glassy and half-closed as she gives into what he’s doing.

“Okay?” he asks, when his hand reaches her cunt, stroking to where she’s wet enough to make him groan and thrust harder against her. “Not too sore?”

Brienne shakes her head, biting her lip, and he’s going to have to work on making her understand she can make noise, because she’s clearly trying so hard not to and Jaime wants to hear her. 

But he can see her, feel her, watch the way she responds when he slides his fingers into her, hot and wet and softer there than anywhere, when he thumbs the nub that makes her gasp and shove her hips down against his hand. 

Brienne is so damn beautiful like this, Jaime thinks, whatever ugliness he’d thought he’d seen on her fading away as she writhes and bucks in his arms. He loves it, loves the way her skin tastes, the smell of her, the way her eyes go wide when she finds her peak and shakes apart in his grasp.

Jaime tries to go slow, but he’s almost begging until she nods her okay and he can slide into her again. His eyes nearly cross at how _good_ it is, how she feels so utterly different and better than his hand, all warm and wet and perfect.

He lasts longer this time, though not by much, enough that Brienne’s hips start to move slightly in time with his, her mouth dropping open in surprised pleasure. 

Jaime wants to keep going, wants to see if he can bring her over again, inside her, but just that thought is enough to send him spilling inside her with frantic, uneven thrusts.

He feels boneless, laying beside her after in the morning light, and this time Brienne’s the one petting him, her hand running along his arm.

“It will get better,” he manages to promise, when he can catch his breath. “I swear it.”

“It gets better?” Brienne asks, and she sounds so unsure and so sweet that Jaime has to kiss her again, kiss her until they’re both breathless.

“It will,” Jaime says. “I’ll last longer, make you feel that good when I’m inside you.”

Brienne is blushing redder than Jaime ever thought possible, but she also looks intrigued. 

“If you’ll have me,” Jaime says. “As your husband, in all ways.”

Brienne reaches for his hand, fingers threading through his.

“I would like that,” she says, and her smile feels like the sun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The marriage contract between Tywin and Selwyn specifies the need for two heirs. Most people, upon seeing the couple, doubt they will even manage to produce one. 
> 
> In the end, they have eleven and anyone who stays in the same wing of Casterly Rock as the couple is surprised it's not more.

**Author's Note:**

> Having made the decision to title all my fic with lyrics from 1990s to early 2000s songs, this comes from The Ballad of Sleeping Beauty by Sophie B. Hawkins. It's great, you should listen to it.


End file.
